'Tis the season for staph and streptococcus

Deck the shelves with antibiotics, tra la la la la la la la lah.
‘Tis the season for staph and streptococcus, tra la la la la la la la lah.

     An outbreak of festering skin sores on our feet and lower legs is sweeping through 10 Pearl Street.  It reminded me of a time 37 years ago in PNG where I am certain little has changed.

     Our family moved to Lae in PNG when I was eight.  For the first few weeks I was in a state of shock, the type of macabre shock that entrances a young child who has had a charmed and sheltered life.  It was shock that grew, much to my delight, as I encountered the extraordinary in the ordinary of life in a third world country. 

     Mothers pulling nits from their children’s hair and slipping the parasites between their lips. 

    The rich, acrid and often nauseating smells that overwhelmed me at the markets where my mother insisted I accompany her; smoke from two-toea stick tobacco, bitter coconut oil in the Nationals' afro hair, a pungent waft of fish laid out on banana leaves in the steamy, equatorial heat.  There were cus cus, small, native mammals with large, innocent eyes in home-made bamboo cages and pigs, both waiting for slaughter.  
The campfire smell of the billum, the traditional string bags the women sat around weaving after rolling the plant fibres (and sometimes cuscus) along their muscly legs to make twine. 

     People crippled or disfigured at birth, there being no health care system to treat such conditions; faces bulbous with cancers and deformities, people of all ages limping from polio, elephantiasis-like and other diseases rare in Australia, handless and feetless limbs, often wrapped in rags to cushion the stump, a mangled and permanently closed eye, the long, keloid scar suggesting a bush knife attack. 

     A man beating his wife by the roadside as she squatted and shielded the blows to her head.

     “Don’t look, Catherine,” said Dad.  Of course, I looked.  It’s just not right, I thought.    Someone should do something to help her.  Except the shiny bush knife on his belt, the one with the 50 centimetre blade was a good reason to turn a blind eye. 

     All this was happening in Australia's neighbouring country.  In fact, it was more like another planet.

     But what I found most fascinating in those early weeks were the tropical ulcers that erupted on my and my brothers’ feet.  We ditched our sandals and sandshoes upon arrival in our new country and embraced the laid-back lifestyle and freedom to roam. What started as small scratches from mosquitoes and thick foliage we explored, seemed to thrive in the hot, wet humidity and flower, literally bloom across and into our skin.  They were perfectly round, like deep ponds of shiny, pink water, always with a halo of red. And the flies loved them.

     Out came the gentian violet, bright purple liquid that stained the skin.  It was supposed to kill the bacteria that caused the ulcer.  We needed to keep the sores clean and dry which was a losing battle in the 99 percent humidity and given the desire we had to keep running around without shoes or long pants.  The aim was to prevent a scab from forming; that meant ‘big trouble.’  I also remember gallons of the golden yellow acriflavine liquid and the fire-engine red, mercurochrome, other topical treatments for tropical ulcers that were completely ineffective.   

     One of us must have developed the typical red line that tracks up the leg denoting serious infection or developed a terrible fever which also meant ‘big trouble’ for there were injections of something in a huge glass syringe with a terrifyingly large needle more appropriate for use on elephants.  The drug worked, the sores healed and we seemed to develop an immunity that, for the most part, kept the ulcers at bay.  We were reminded of our season of sores only by the deep, round scars decorating our lower limbs.

     However, 37 years later, I still bear the now-faint scar of my deepest, largest and most fabulous tropical ulcer.

     Fast forward to the present day on TI.  This naigai season, the doldrums before the wet season, has provided perfect conditions for skin sores;  still, hot, humid.  I don’t know enough about tropical skin infections, but we’ve all developed circular, seeping, red-ringed sores on our legs and feet.

     “Is this normal?” asked Nicola, as she performed the ritual treatment on her sons’ legs.

     “It happens when it’s hot and warm,” I said, ho-hum.  “You get used to it and it’ll pass when the rain comes.”  I told her about the outbreaks of APSGN, the strep skin-infections that can lead to kidney disease and have hit TI twice in the past four years. 

     Nicola was shaking her head. “I’ve never seen anything like these sores that just won’t heal.”

     Fortunately in the Torres Strait, we have only sores, sores that generally heal with topical antiseptic and good hygiene.  If they become infected we have access to free medical consultation and free antibiotics. 

     We don’t have mothers de-nitting their children’s hair in public and consuming the nits.  We don’t have native animals being sold for food in circumstances that would give the RSPCA and Australian government apoplexy.  We don’t have people suffering the pain and indignity of gross deformity or amputees using dirty cloths as prostheses.  And we don’t have men exercising their right to beat the crap out of their wives on the side of the road.  
     We are living in the luckiest part of PNG’s lucky neighbour, every reason to be jolly.

If you love something, set it free

If you love something, set it free. If it comes back it is yours, if it doesn’t, it never was.

     I first read this quote by Richard Bach in 1981.  It was on an A4 poster with a watermark backdrop of a seagull.  A fellow boarder had it on the wall above her bed.

     Even as a 12 year-old I found the simplicity in this statement irritating, perhaps exacerbated by the insipid, pastel tones.  It may have been one of many catalysts that contributed to the development of my cynical nature.

     Anyway, it’s a quote that has stayed with me all these years.

     I’ve found it really only applies to rescued native animals and lovers.  Except with the latter, and I am referring to the past tense these days, that meant loveable, but not in the enduring sense. If they came back they needed an extra and very forceful push to go and stay gone.  And stray puppies and kittens, well, you can’t set them free. It’s best to call the animal patrol officer so they can be euthanized.  That way those rescued native animals you set free actually have a chance at surviving instead of being ripped to pieces.

     Richard Bach’s words of wisdom hit home the other day.  In the past few weeks, Pepper Zen had taken on the demeanour of an angel, or so I thought.  She’d stand in the middle of the yard and flap her wings looking beautiful and ethereal. I thought of the voluptuous renaissance beauties immortalised by Botticelli and Titian.  I glowed with pride each time she did this Angel's Wings routine.  It was a divine affirmation that my feathered friend was truly heaven sent.  

     The other evening Nicola and I were on the patio as Pepper and the children played in the yard.  Pepper did her Angel Wings routine, this time while running as fast as she could.

     “Isn’t she beautiful?” I said.

     “She’s starting to fly,” said Nicola, laughing.  I understood immediately why she was laughing.

     If you love something, set it free. If it comes back it is yours, if it doesn’t, it never was.

     Fuck that, I thought.  Pepper’s not going anywhere.

     “Where are your scissors?” I said, already at Nicola’s back door.

     And I cut Pepper’s right wing.  

Christmas Day: Accursed or alternative

I woke at 12.30 am on Christmas Eve and gulped ibuprofen, desperate to dull the razor-sharp pain in my right tonsil.  Not long after I snuck in Panadeine Forte a couple of hours before they were due.  At 2 am, nauseated by the pain, I was throwing up into a small black bucket I wasn’t sure was liquid-proof.  I didn’t care because Tony had to deal with it.  I was too sick.

     “Take me to the hospital,” I whispered, no longer able to vocalise my words.

     I am no stranger to tonsilitis.  It’s my ‘thing’ when I am run down.  I should have known better since my most recent attack was two months earlier.  The time before that I went, ignominiously at midnight to the hospital for pain relief when the oral stuff didn't cut it.  I wanted stuff that worked.  Morphine.

     The nurse took phone instructions from the doctor on call.  The first two attempts at pain relief, prednisolone failed and that left only morphine.  It worked. A warm, dreamy sensation flooded my arm and chest while the drug was being injected.  And the pain relief was instant.  I dozed for a few hours in A&E, waking as soon as I slipped into unconsciousness.  Strange, I thought.

     At 6 am a woman presented in the bed next to mine and I listened to her moan in pain from the other side of the curtains.  Fever, two days, sore throat and ears.  Another victim. 

     In my delicious pain-free, drug-haze I willed her to ask for morphine.

     It turned out there had been a spike in tonsillitis presentations and hospital admissions of adults rather than children which would be expected.

     By the time I was discharged at half eight, I was buzzing with what I thought was good health thanks to modern day pharmacopeia.  Hell, I didn’t even sleep though I was wrecked considering I’d had no sleep the night before.  Christmas day was going to be a success after all.  We’d decided on Friday Island, the same beach as last year.  I shopped, I cooked, I chatted over cups of tea.  If anything, I was a little hyperactive. Bloody good stuff, that morphine.  Don’t remember it working so well last time.

     By early afternoon, Ollie down stairs had been diagnosed with tonsillitis.  By mid-afternoon, #2 son, Sutchy had succumbed.  Oh dear.  Was the universe attempting to stop us meeting our Christmas tradition of spending the day on a beach?  Were our plans cursed by three sets of dodgy tonsils?

     We were all on penicillin so I was hopeful Christmas day would dawn, the drugs would have won the battle with the evil strep bacteria and we’d speed off to Friday Island and enjoy the sun, sea and sand.  Not so. 

     I woke, feeling like I vice was tightening around my neck.  Ollie was a mess and so was Sutchy.  In fact, Sutchy was so bad he didn’t want to go out in the boat.  That means Sutchy was desperately ill. 

     You see, Sutchy is the hunter in the family.  He complains like a stuck pig if he can’t get out each day to fish, dive, bow-hunt or otherwise kill something and eat it.  On Christmas morning he stumbled out of bed, holding his throat.

     “Can we stay home?” he said to his father.

     We had to.  Alternative Christmas plans were in urgent order.

     We ate and we chatted.  I was flat and perhaps a little snappy.  I know, that's hard to believe.  There were some stimulating mental games.

Finger soccer.  Perfect for teenage boys.

We took photos of our Christmas pearls.

Us lot on TI.  A short visit to the Friday Island pearl farm a few weeks ago enabled me to buy pearls for the whole family here, Cairns and Toowoomba.  Great quality and great value!  First year in three we've had presents.  Thank you Takami and Rhonda and staff.

Ash and Mikes in Cairns wearing Christmas pearls.  PS Aren't they gorgeous?

     Then I slunk off to sleep for two hours.  Eileen and Nicola chatted.  The kids were well behaved and did something that didn’t require adults to tell them to ‘be quiet.’

Tony slept off the Christmas dinner.

Gina Rose waited in hope for the next meal.

Dr John read some engaging literature: Not for parents: The real wonders of the world (Day of the Dead)

Pepper Zen was resplendent in the garden.

     I woke, buoyed by the rest.  Over a cup of tea I related to Dr John my feeling hyperactive the day before.

     “Could it have been the prednisolone?”

     “Prednisolone is well known for causing agitation,” he said with a dry smile, as if I should have known.

     “Okay, so if I am in Cairns and I have to go to the hospital because the pain from tonsilitis is so bad, should I just say, Steroids don’t work with me, just give me morphine?” 

     “No,” he shrieked and levitated at the same time.  “Never ask for morphine down south.”

     Uh-oh.  I guess not.

     When the sun had all, but disappeared I took a very slow walk to Back Beach and on the way located some of the absent children.

Sunset cricket.

I had to get in a visit to a beach on Christmas day.

     It’s been years since we stayed home on Christmas Day.  In fact, I can't think of a Christmas day we've not spent at a beach.  On a positive note, there was nothing to organise and not much to clean up except the dishes.  It was a nice alternative to spending it on a beach.  But I sure as hell would have liked to have had a different throat for the day.

Pepper Zen's Christmas message

Quack, quack, quack.  Merry Christmas to all and sundry.  Spare a thought for those less fortunate than yourselves, those who are without family, food and shelter and who live in war-torn regions.  
     Now to the point, I beg you to think about all the animals whose lives are cut tragically short as humans pursue their desire for meat.  They are creatures just like me. 
     Consider limiting your intake of animal proteins and adopt a diet higher in plant proteins such as pulses and avocado.  Feel free, of course, to consume the wonderful sources of protein animals like me, the simple chook and the doe-eyed cow offer: eggs, milk, cheese.
     Please, please eat less animal flesh (preferably none) and increase your health by consuming a diet much higher in vegetables.
     Do your bit to stop the unnecessary slaughter of innocent and defenceless souls who are, all of us, God's creatures.
     Quack, quack, quack and go in peace and love.
     Pepper Zen

The choices at Christmas time on the mainland

Janelle Marrington of the Marringtons we have spent eight 8 of the past 10 Christmases with, phoned tonight, Christmas Eve.

     “I discovered something wonderful,” she said.

     “That you are emotionally strong enough to spend Christmas without us, sniff, sniff,” I replied.

     “Yes, of course, but there is one other thing.  I realised, that after all these years I won’t be wearing the one thing I have always worn on Christmas Day in the Torres Strait.”

     “Your blue sunshirt,” I said.

     “You’re right, but then I thought I could wear it at Litchfield National Park.”

     “Why can’t you?”

    “Saltwater crocodiles have got into the swimming holes and they’re closed.  So we decided to go further afield, but we’ve had three days of monsoonal rain so that’s out.”

     “Oh, dear. What on earth will you do?”  They have choices on the mainland about Christmas venues.  Luckily we just go to beaches on islands and there are not that many islands around TI.

     It turns out they are going to Jim and Deb’s place.  Awww.  I got that warm fuzzy feeling.  Jim and Deb were on TI for years and Deb and I used to do yoga together.  And it turns out that the Marringtons had their first Christmas on TI in 2002 with Jim and Deb.

     Awww.  I got a warmer and fuzzier feeling when I remembered Jim and Deb’s Christmas in 2002.  Tony, the kids, only two of them then, and I went to stay with my family for 2002 Christmas and Jim and Deb dog-sat my soul-mate, Saidor the Dalmation.  

     Bless her soul, she passed away two years ago at age 12 and my life hasn’t been the same.  We were inseparable.  She slept by my bed.  When I was at the computer, she was at my feet.  When I cooked she was on the floor in the kitchen.  When I was in the maternity ward in labour with Seffy and Kibby, she was at the door, waiting for me and her new sibling.   

Saidor and me doing yoga.  I can't rotate the image.  It was read-only.

   

There is a funny story about Saidor and my mutual devotion and her sleeping inside when Tony decided against the arrangement, but it will have to wait for another post.

     I reminded Janelle that was the Christmas Jim and Deb were defacto parents of Saidor.

     “And I am so happy,” I said, “you can relive your 2002 Christmas with Jim and Deb and we are there in spirit with Saidor.  Now back to what you are wearing to Jim and Deb’s.”

     “Well, I don’t know. I could wear anything.  I could wear a dress or a skirt.”

     “You know what.  You’ll be paralysed by the choices.  That’s the problem of living on the mainland.”

     We had a giggle and gave each other’s families our best, long distance Christmas wishes.

As I was drifting off to sleep, I was jolted awake by a shocking realisation; Janelle doesn’t have a dress or a skirt.  I can’t remember seeing her in one in 11 years on TI, except when she wore island dresses for island dancing at school celebrations like the cultural festival or NAIDOC days.  

     I settled back into slumber thinking, She’ll be wearing that blue sun shirt after all.

Tourism in the Torres Strait

I was going to post the first photo below and make a chirpy comment about what a successful charter Tony had on Sunday, even though it almost didn't happen thanks to crappy weather.
     Then I thought, Cate, your last ten or so posts have been so positive and uplifting, where has your cynical and critical (constructively so) character gone?  And I have acquired another bout of tonsilitis and not yet started antibiotics.  I am not too happy.  
     So I decided to frame this post as an easy-to-read, critical look at why tourism in the Torres Strait has struggled and may not take off.  Here goes.

The Torres Strait is synonymous with pristine sea, untouched tropical islands and deserted beaches.  This is manna to tour operators and agencies. 

One happy client.  However, this trip was scheduled for Thursday then cancelled due to wind and rain.  By Sunday, the conditions were favourable for the trip.

     There are good reasons the beaches are deserted.

     2013 was the eleventh year of operation of Tony’s Island Adventures, Tony’s fishing and cruising charter.  We did a lot of research prior to establishing TIA to ensure our small business success.  At the time, 90% of small business failed within two years.  We felt it was a done dinner because there was no other small-scale, reasonably priced charter operated by an Islander (or anyone).  In fact, we were so sure of TIA’s success, we sold our grass cutting business on April Fools’ day, 2003, a month before commencing TIA.  Fortune or folly?

     The cruel realities of operating a fishing charter hit in the first year.  We were forced to cancel trips because of strong wind, normal during the dry, tourist season from May to October.  I went crazy trying to promote TIA in fishing magazines in addition to a squillion laminated posters that graced the notice boards of TI and Seisia.  In 2004, we had an eight-page spread by Steve Starling, then Australia’s most popular fishing journo in Modern Fishing, the country’s premiere fishing publication.  We did not receive one phone call or email enquiry.

     Interestingly, our rate of trips was consistent from year to year, regardless of the effort I put into promotion.

     We expected to gain some business from the thousands of tourists who drive up Cape York to the Tip and come across on Peddells.  There was one problem.  Most of these 4WD visitors are on a schedule and the day trip from Seisia to TI was factored in before they left Bendigo or Bermagui (Victoria and NSW being the starting place of about 90% of the day trippers according to research presented at the tourism steering committee established on TI in 2008, of which I was involved).

     We attempted to create package tours for three- and five-night stays.  I contacted the hotels to negotiate favourable rates.

     “Why would we offer you a discount rate,” said one manager, “for fishing package deals when we are at capacity all the time.”

     QANTASLink kindly offered a tour operators’ fare from Cairns to Horn Island at 75% of the full-economy rate, but it was still $630 at the time, a prohibitive amount when clients need to get to Cairns in the first place.

     The harsh realities of operating a business in a very remote area hit home.

     In 2004, I was bemoaning the wind to a fishing mate of Tony’s after cancelling another fishing charter due to strong wind. 

     He looked around, pointed and said, “If tourism was ever going to take off in the Torres Strait, those islands would be dotted with high rises.”

     I was reminded that operating a fishing charter in an area where the wind blows at 25 knots for nine months of the year was problematic.  

     And don’t forget the fast currents on the full and new moon.  The water flows at speeds of up to 9 knots in the middle of the year, the tourist season, making fishing impossible.  Then factor in the most number of strong wind warnings for the year between May and September when the wind rages between 26 and 33 knots.  I remember 2006.  For six weeks the wind blew in excess of 30 knots, sometimes reaching 40 knots. 

     This adds up to a lot of cancelled trips such that we don’t even take deposits anymore.

     To keep the wolves from the door, I went back to work as a lawyer and later Tony completed his Master 5 and MED3 and began work as a skipper.

     In 2005, the Torres Strait Regional Authority began investing heavily in tourism in the Torres Strait, particularly the luxury resort at Poruma, now defunct.  Travel writers and film crews descended on TI and Tony featured in a range of shows such as Fishing Australia, Creek to Coast and Queensland Weekender and on the pages of travel magazines.  The only promotion that resulted in one three-day trip was the feature in Fishing Australia.

     Interestingly, there was no base-line data recorded prior to the investment in tourism promotion and no assessment of the success or failure of the efforts.

The sun sets on tourism in the Torres Strait

     In 2008 a consultant was engaged to prepare a report about tourism in the Torres Strait.  A trip with Tony was arranged, but we cancelled on the morning when a strong wind warning was announced on the BOM.

     “We’re not going far,” said the consultant. “Surely we can go.” 

     “It’s blowing 27 knots and you’ll get wet and cold,” I said and then explained to him how the wind and the current can make dinghy travel dangerous.

     “Nobody told me about the wind,” he said through gritted teeth.

     This was a complaint we heard again and again.  Not to mention the one about there being little to do on TI.

     Visits to the Torres Strait Heritage Museum and taking an In Their Steps tour on Horn Island, Gab Titui Cultural Centre on TI, Friday Island pearl farm and a stroll up town and around TI cannot fill a week’s holiday.

     And to think that each year I received a phone or email from people interested in establishing a dive operation or a eco-resort because, they claimed, "there isn’t anything like that in the Torres Strait!"

     In 2008, weeks before the fifth anniversary of Tony’s Island Adventures, Tony and I were scratching our heads.  We’d surrendered to the fact that a fishing charter is not able to bring in a full-time income.

     “There has to be something,” I said, “that’s busy during the wet season when the fishing charters are slow and slow during the dry season when the fishing charter is busy.”

     “Grass cutting,” said Tony, a quick as a whip.  “Let’s start up the Gadin Ninja again.”

     Good fortune was shining on us.  Two days later I learned the purchasers of our business back in 2003 had left TI that week, unable to secure accommodation for their family.

     On 1 April, 2008 we re-established Gadin Ninja and added tree trimming and lopping.        We built up the business and sold it on 1 April, 2013, the date having escaped us when we signed the contract on 5 February.

     Tony continues to do his fishing charters and all clients are non-tourists.  Clients are either visiting public servants who finish work a day early or stay for the weekend or are residents who don’t own boats and have family visiting.

     I have observed the pressure on Indigenous people in remote areas to establish tourist operations as if this will be the panacea for welfare dependence and economic freedom.       Last year I was chatting with a consultant following a report into tourism on Cape York and Torres Strait.

     “The lights are out on Cape York tourism,” he said.

     “Well, there is no electricity in the Torres Strait,” I replied. And I thought, That was not a bad thing.

     Operating any business requires a very solid foundation in literacy and numeracy which, we know, many Indigenous people in remote areas lack due to the difficulty of accessing quality education. 

     Business operators also require a solid business acumen which Tony and I lack.  What has helped us is the fact we are the only operators of a business of this kind and taking people fishing is Tony’s passion.  My passion is Tony and I would do anything for him that helps him achieve his passion even though I thorough despise the paperwork and data entry.

     So from where I am sitting, things on the Torres Strait tourism front are no different to what they were 11 years ago when we started researching the feasibility of a fishing charter. No doubt, the state and federal governments will soon release another round of funding to establish tourism-based ventures in remote Indigenous communities.  Another public servant will be employed by a relevant government agency to achieve this.  The wheel will be reinvented, yet the sea will remain pristine, the tropical islands untouched and the beaches deserted. 

Lost in Mangroves

Lost in Mangroves is the sixth and latest anthology from the Tropical Writers Inc which formed in 2003.  I joined in 2010, inspired by the group’s vision and website, full of information for the aspriring, emerging and established writer. Writers’ groups, especially those with online services for writers in remote areas, enable us to connect through our craft.  The anthologies published by Tropical Writers Inc not only allow members to showcase work, but also they highlight some of the wonderful aspects of the Far North.

     I first submitted to a Tropical Writers anthology in 2011 with Category 5, a gripping collection following Cyclone Yasi.  If Lost in Mangroves is anything like Category 5, readers will be very happy.  If you are after some local and engaging festive season reading, support local writers and grab a copy of Lost in Mangroves (Collins Booksellers and Angus & Robertson) which comprises non-fiction short stories and poetry following the theme of ‘home.’ 

     Here is the back cover blurb:

Hack your way through the mangroves of this anthology and confront the labyrinth of contorted roots about the ghosts of childhood, stray dogs on Thursday Island, a dramatic eclipse of the sun, a royal visit to Cairns, Australians confused by an Indian custom, and solitude on sun-drenched sands.

     My short story, Ruby’s Tuesday on Thursday Island follows Ruby, neglected and pregnant, as she searches the island for a safe place to birth her latest litter of puppies.  It is a true story that involved the Torres Shire Council, the dog catcher and the RSPCA’s Chief Inspector of Operations.

     My copy of Lost in Mangroves is on order at Collins Booksellers at Smithfield.  Damn the distance between here and Cairns.  However I have been lucky enough to read the submission by Elizabeth Martin, The hat, the bird and the naughty little boy.  Elizabeth, like me is a busy mother of three boys, but she is also a GP.  How she manages to write and write so well given the demands on her time is a mystery although I suspect she does much work in the wee hours and under the influence of caffeine.  I have read quite a bit of Elizabeth's writing.  It is witty and engaging, and has a distant sadness that reminds me very much of Tim Winton’s work with a woman’s touch.  I feel this comes from her ability to tap into the realities of life, the struggles we face as we negotiate relationships and parenting, and get those realities on the page, or screen rather, in a raw albeit refreshing way.  Each time I have read her work I thought, Oh, that's exactly how I felt when ....

     Here are the opening paragraphs of Elizabeth’s story.  I cringed as I sensed something very unpleasant was about to happen, something that could have happened to me.

The hat, the bird and the naughty little boy

Long, long ago and Once Upon A Time, in a dreamlike state caused by broken sleep and the hormones of breastfeeding, I went to have coffee with friends. In those days I was obsessed with coffee. I tried to limit my habit to one cup a day, but with that came the imperative; it had to be a good one. Not only did the coffee have to be good, but the setting too. And that’s the reason I had a year’s pass to Wild World.

            My sister said later, you’d think the name would have been enough warning. Wild World is now called the Cairns Tropical Zoo, but is still home to the same assortment of crocodiles, snakes and—scariest of all—brolgas. The coffee shop is also still there. I can see it from the Cook Highway as I drive past. But I haven’t been back. I wasn’t officially banned; I just don’t want any unpleasantness.

            It was a sunny winter’s day, the tropical air only lightly laced with humidity, and I was drinking my coffee with a girlfriend, her husband, her two beautifully behaved daughters and my two sons. We stretched our dusty legs, relaxing after trudging the concrete paths of the zoo, letting kangaroos lick pellets out of our hands and ushering questioning children away from grunting, copulating wombats. The smell of coffee mingled with the streaking afternoon light and the screech of cockatoos. My younger son was still little enough to be in a pram—restrained, but later proving himself to be sensible and obedient anyway, the opposite of his brother who buzzed at the periphery of my coffee-sharpened vision, wearing a gorgeous denim hat.

Christmas Day rehearsals

Christmas Day for the Titasey family has been the same for many years.  We open presents, if I have remembered to buy them, then pack up the boat.  We find a beach and plonk our stuff under a shady tree and spend most of the day in the water, cooling off or in the shade, eating, drinking and making lazy merry.
     We've mostly spent Christmas Day on Goods Island with the Marrington family, but last year, owing to increased urbanisation on Goods (there are four shacks now) we were pushed further afield (should that be asea?) and we discovered the beauty of Friday Island.

Wherever we are, we do lots of this.

Lots of this.

And lots of this.

We take a group photo.

And a family photo with our white son.

     In 1997, our family, though much smaller and pre-Marringtons, was on Tuesday Island, but that involved camping.  The logistics of transporting 6 people and our guests, that is, anyone left on TI who is missing family and want to join us, is too complicated.  So we need a beach close by.  In 2009 we stayed on TI, but we went to Front Beach and sat under the meke trees or swam in the full tide. That was a bit too close.  The rule now is the beach must be on a different island.
     The Marringtons left TI in April so Christmas Day won't be the same even though we will be spending it on a beach.  We've been rehearsing for Christmas Day by trying to find a beach that feels 'just right.'

This is the beach before Terry Beach. So, so.

This is Long Beach.  Very nice.

Entrance Island.  Quite nice.

Goods Island.  We really like Goods, but we need to find a different beach.

     We don't know where we'll end up this year, but it will be a beach.
     And next year, who knows?  We might be on the mainland, in a city!  Hell, we might be in the country or somewhere inland, by a river or a creek.  Nah.  That wouldn't be right.  We'll have to spend Christmas Day on a beach somewhere.  Now, back to the big question, which beach this year?

Keeping it real

I can’t believe I quoted Anthony Mundine the other day. I am not a fan of him or his sport.  In fact, I despise boxing.  It’s violent, encourages violence and contributes to injuries.  The only reason I was able to quote Anthony Mundine was because I had read the ABC news.  

     On October 19 last year, I was appalled when Mundine said, of the impending fight with Aboriginal boxer, Daniel Geale, “I thought they wiped all the Aborigines from Tasmania out."

     He went on to say about Geale, "He's got a white woman, he's got white kids. I keep it real, all day every day."

     Had I been present when Mundine spoke those words, I reckon I would have forgotten my pacifist philosophy and flown at him in a homicidal rage.  I could see the headline on the front pages of The Australian, The Guardian and New York Times, Thursday Island housewife puts Mundine in ICU. 

     Instead, I had to settle for cursing Mundine to my computer.  I wish I had known Pepper Zen back then.  She could have helped me moderate my response.
     I became Geale’s biggest fan. I couldn’t wait for the January fight.  I was sending lots of ‘kick his arse’ and TKO wishes Geale’s way.   

     Anyway, Geale won so I was able to maintain my commitment to a non-violent society.

     Back to my story of how I quoted Anthony Mundine.

     On Saturday morning, I text my dear friend, Elia who I have been wanting to have a good yarn with.  The problem is finding a time when we can both clean, cook or wash while we chat on the phone.  When I am ready to multi-task, she is working or dealing with children and vice-versa.  So, I made an attempt on Saturday and text her.

     Are you awake?  I am in the garden with Pepper.

     She replied the next day.  Busy day yesterday.  I was on my way to Toowoomba for a meeting when you were in the garden with your dog.

     Me:  Duck not dog.  And enlightened duck who advises me on all manner of life’s quandaries.  She is not just a pet.  Tony won’t let her in the house which has created some marital disharmony.

     Elia (a Leunig fan):  Your Leunig gene is showing.

     Me:  Yeah, but I keep it real all day every day.  I just quoted Anthony Mundine.  Leunig mucks around with cartoons.

     Elia:  So when does her name become a condiment? Christmas day?

     Me:  Not you too.  Perish the thought.  She has a ten year life expectancy.  I will be a very wise woman in a decade.

     Elia:  Wise as a duck?

     Me:  Ah.  It has a fresh ring to it.  Especially since cats have eaten so many of the native owls.  I like it – Wise as a duck.

     I keep it real, all day every day with my duck.  We have real, quality time together.  We don’t just watch the tele at the same time.  We sit together and commune.  Her advice about life choices from the big stuff (what battles with my boys I should let go) to the little stuff (what I should make for dinner when I don’t want to cook) is real world advice that helps me be the best person I can be.  Well, less ogre/banshee like.  I am less likely to fight with the kids and more likely to make a meal they are prepared to eat … without too much complaining.

     Thanks for the words of wisdom, Anthony.  Consider adopting a duck to help you keep it real, all day every day.  Ducks come in a range of colours.  Motley coloured, mixed-breed ducks are lovely reminders that cross-cultural families are proof that reconciliation between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people is real and one of the most important social and political goals of this century.  

     Anyway, the colour of a duck is only feather deep. It’s the duck’s wisdom that counts.  And it’s the wisdom that will help us deal with and overcome racial and all other prejudices.  And what I have to make for dinner since Tony didn't bring home the fish he caught on today's charter.

     Quack, quack, quack.

Deer casserole for dinner

Tony, Sutchy and Kibby went bow hunting yesterday, keen to shoot a deer for Christmas.       They were up at half four for an early start.  It was a clear and cool day.  Good signs for a successful trip.  They were sure to get a five-pointer or a pig at the least.

 Tony text me this gorgeous photo of the sunrise.

     At midday, I was a bit concerned as Tony hadn’t responded to a couple of texts I sent.  It’s a mother’s lot in life to worry about her sons, especially when they are carrying lethal weapons and they are moving about a large island (the third largest in Australia, in fact!) when it is very hot and dry. 

     Yes, I know they are with their father, but when I hear of their exploits when diving, fishing and hunting, Tony’s presence gives me little comfort.  Last holidays, Kibby blurted out at dinner that on the most recent hunting trip he was rushed at by a pig.
     "Whaaat!" I said in my calmest voice.
     "Shut up, Kibbim," said Sutchy, shaking his head.  "Now Mum will freak out and stop us going hunting."

What now?

     Eventually I made contact.  They were at cousin John and Lynda’s place on Entrance Island and they were all enjoying a cup of coffee at the bus stop.  

The bus stop is a zar zar, simple shelter on posts, on the beach overlooking POW and TI.

     “Are you all okayt?” I asked, just wanting to make sure everyone was safe.

     “Yes, we’re all okay.”  His tone has the same weary resignation either to my question or to what was coming next.

     “Are the animals of Prince of Wales all okay?”

     “Yes, they’re all okay, too.”  He gave a big sigh, the same one when he breaks the news they didn’t catch so much as a fly.  “There’s the fish from yesterday.  We can have that for dinner.”

     “Well, I rang you to say the meat order, the whole 220kg has arrived and needs to be picked up from Toll at the wharf.”  I couldn’t help, but chuckle.  “I’ll cook up some beef in a casserole and we’ll pretend it’s deer.” 

Heading home, empty handed

At least someone was happy!

Cousin John gives Tony some deer hunting tips for next time.